


make it home just fine

by ewidentnie



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, M/M, Minnesota Twins, Multiple Orgasms, Overstimulation, Rimming, emotionally unhealthy sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-22 10:47:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17058359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ewidentnie/pseuds/ewidentnie
Summary: It starts like this.





	make it home just fine

**Author's Note:**

> this entire ship is like, the definition of "well, this escalated quickly" lmao. a huge thank you to ohtempora for chatficcing 17k (!!!) of these two with me and also for hammering this into shape - without her it would've been the world's biggest mess. title is from portugal. the man's [so young](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=meD5s4R0j4k).
> 
> please note that "Choose Not To Use Archive Warnings" is checked for a reason - there are more extensive warnings at the end; please heed them if needed.

It starts like this:

Max gets called up, end of September. It would’ve been earlier, his manager tells him, but they had to wait for Chattanooga’s season to end. He’s on the plane to Minnesota the next day with nothing but a hastily packed suitcase, still a little hungover after winning the Southern League with the Lookouts, but— who cares, he’s on his way to the big leagues now.

Joe Mauer’s the first one to say hi to him when he walks into the locker room, holding out a hand for Max to shake. “Congrats,” he says, “we figured we’d be seeing you soon.”

Max isn’t a small guy, but he’s still always shocked at how much bigger Joe is. Joe’s only an inch or so taller, but he’s so much broader, and that doesn’t even begin to cover the difference that Joe’s presence makes.

He doesn’t see any game time for the first few days but that doesn’t stop Joe from taking him under his wing, sitting next to him on the bench and talking him through games. Spends enough time with him that people start making jokes about Max being Joe’s rookie; which shouldn’t make Max smile as much as it does. It hasn’t been the greatest season for Joe, he knows; he saw something about his strikeout rate this year the other day, but that doesn’t seem to bother Joe at all. Max is buzzing with anticipation that he can’t seem to hide but Joe just takes it all in stride.

And Joe just keeps looking at him with some kind of expectation, the entire time. After his first game - a pinch hit appearance, 0-for-1 at the plate - his first time on the field - Joe’s just watching him. Could just be typical veteran pride, the expectation that Max is going to be something special, but it seems _different_ , somehow. Not fond, exactly, but something possessive. _Next year_ , Joe keeps saying, like it’s inevitable, whenever they’re back on the bench together, thigh pressed against his as if there’s not enough space for the two of them. _Next year_.

The season ends though, sooner than Max wants it to. They’re not making the playoffs this year. Probably everyone else just wants it to be over, but Max is clinging to every little bit of baseball he can get. He gets his first start, on the last day of the regular season, his first hit, but there’s only nine innings for him to revel in it all and then— it’s all over.

They’re in the clubhouse, after the final out. Final game of the season. Paul Molitor’s handing him the ball of his first hit; the speech he gives is an ending, but for Max this is all just a beginning. First start, first hit, first taste of the big leagues. The guys are yelling at him to do a speech but he barely thinks about what he’s saying; just ends up focusing on the feel of the ball in his hands.

There’s clapping, after, from the rest of the team - mostly unironic - but he can see Joe coming towards him from the corner of his eye before Joe’s pulling him in with a handshake and then a pat on his shoulder. He’d expected Joe to be the first one to say something to him - unofficial team captain, and all - and he also expects Joe to tell him some pretty standard congratulatory stuff but instead:

“Come home with me,” Joe says; his voice is low enough that there’s no way to mistake what he’s asking. Max swallows, doesn’t say anything; just nods. He exchanges fistbumps with the other guys, but nobody else grabs him the same way Joe did, hand at the crook of his shoulder and neck, fingers pressing into the skin.

Nobody sticks around for long after that; everyone’s ready to be done with this season. Everyone except Max, it seems like. He follows Joe out of the clubhouse to his car, finds himself wondering just what Joe wants to do. There’s no indication - Joe’s just got the radio tuned to some music station, low enough that neither of them can really hear it. He keeps the conversation pretty light, too - mentions some stuff about some offseason renos at the stadium before asking about Max’s offseason plans.

“Heading back to Berlin?” he asks, and Max just nods. They don’t talk much after that.

He’s never been to Joe’s place before but it’s nice, from what he can see from the entrance hall. Joe’s already heading into the house - Max can hear him putting his bag down somewhere - but he’s caught up taking his shoes off and doesn’t see where Joe puts it.

“You want something to drink?” Joe calls. In the kitchen now, probably. “I have water.” Max says no - it feels like a delaying tactic, and they both know why Max came over. He finishes setting his shoes aside; Joe’s are just kicked to the side, but he feels like he should at least line his up neatly.

“There you are,” Joe says. “Thought you’d gotten lost.” He tilts his head. “You coming?” he asks, before heading upstairs.

The doors on the second floor are all closed, so he’s not sure what leads to where. Joe doesn’t offer to show him around and Max doesn’t bother asking; just follows Joe into the room on the left that he heads into.

It’s big and nicely decorated but impersonal; obviously a guest room. The bed’s perfectly made, like nobody’s slept here for a while. It almost feels like he’s walked back into his hotel room - a space that isn’t his; one he’s only temporarily existing in.

He doesn’t know what Joe’s plan is, so he’s just following Joe’s lead, here. “On the bed,” Joe says, but he’s already pushing Max down onto the edge of it. He’s dropping to his knees before Max can even say anything, still with all the easy grace of a catcher - even though Joe hasn’t been one in years - and settling between Max’s thighs.

Max is getting hard, but who wouldn’t, when you’ve got _Joe fucking Mauer_ on his knees reaching for your fly and undoing the button and then pulling down the zipper, all delicate-like. “Come on, let’s get these off,” Joe says, and Max obliges, lifting his hips so Joe can pull them off and toss them aside. Pulls his underwear off too in the process, and that goes in the same direction as his jeans.

He takes Max’s cock in hand, more to size it up than anything else - Max feels a little self-conscious, the way Joe seems to be practically inspecting him. But then Joe just wraps his mouth around it, no preamble, and Max practically jackknifes off the bed because he did _not_ see that coming, jesus _christ_. Joe’s surprisingly good with his mouth, tongue working over the head of Max’s cock as he runs his fingers down Max’s balls before pressing at his taint, stroking at the rim of his hole. Slowly taking Max’s dick in, inch by inch; Max has no leverage to try and thrust his hips up but he can’t, anyway, not with the way Joe’s other hand is pressing down on his hip, fingers splayed across the bone there.

Between the warm wet heat of Joe’s mouth and the fingers Joe’s still got pressing against his hole - not in, just enough for Max to know that they’re _there_ \- it’s not long before he’s fully hard, but then Joe pulls off of Max’s cock. And Max whines, although he’ll never admit to that, but then Joe’s spreading his ass apart with his hands - big hands, fuck, they’re covering so much skin - and licking at Max’s hole.

No one’s ever done this to him before. Max immediately wants more of it. It feels so fucking good; better still when Joe reaches up to wrap a hand around Max’s cock. Joe isn’t being hesitant about it at all, starting off with slow licks. Those don’t last for long, though, Joe’s getting into it and the beard on his cheeks is rubbing everything raw and there’s so much sensation, everywhere; Max doesn’t know what to focus on. It’s all too much.

He nearly sobs when Joe works the tip of his tongue inside Max’s ass; actually sobs when Joe works a finger in alongside his tongue. Joe doesn’t let up the entire time, either, still jerking Max off just as steady as he is during a game.

Max comes like that, orgasm hitting him like a fucking fastball to the ribs, under Joe’s hands and fingers and tongue. Joe strokes him through the aftershocks, letting him down nice and easy, but he keeps working him open with his tongue and fingers - there’s two now, in his ass, slick with lube that Max didn’t even notice Joe getting - and Max is overwhelmed but Joe is so fucking good. He might actually cry, at this rate.

Finally, _finally_ , Joe pulls away. Max props himself up on an elbow so he can look at Joe because he doesn’t know why he— stopped; doesn’t know if he wanted Joe to stop. Joe’s mouth is red, when he wipes at it; Max wants him to touch him again. “Hey, you ever done this before?” Joe asks. Max isn’t sure what he’s asking, really. If he’s ever had sex? Gotten fucked? Done this with a teammate?

The answer to all of those questions is yes, though, so Max just nods. The corners of Joe’s mouth turn up, like he’s pleased or something. “I’m gonna fuck you now,” Joe says.

Max just stares at him, licking his lips almost unconsciously; his dick, soft against his thigh, twitches at Joe’s words. “Okay,” he says, barely louder than a whisper.

“Okay,” Joe says, patting his flank before getting up to go dig in the nightstand for a condom. He comes back to stand between Max’s thighs where they’re still spread, shoving his jeans and underwear down, just past his hips, only enough so that he can get his dick out. He’s already hard, cock already curving up towards his stomach. Max can’t help but stare as Joe rolls the condom on - his cock is thicker than average, and he wonders what it’d feel like, heavy in his hand, or stretching his mouth open.

“If you get tested,” Joe says - fuck, he must’ve caught Max staring at his dick, must’ve thought Max was wondering about the rubber - “we can do this raw next time.”

Max just nods, not exactly in agreement, but— now he’s thinking about what it feel like, Joe’s dick sliding in bare, no latex to get in the way of Joe’s cock working him open.

He’s never let anyone fuck him raw before. Never slept with anyone he cared about enough to let them do it, but this is Joe Mauer. Joe Mauer, hometown legend. Joe Mauer, who wants to fuck him. More than once, even; _next time_ , Joe had said, like he knows there’s gonna be a next time. Like it’s guaranteed that Max will be up again next season; that he’ll be in Joe’s bedroom again.

He lets Joe arrange him, big hands pushing his thighs up and apart, making space for himself between Max’s legs, like he belongs there. Like this, just like the rest of the team, the organization, the _city_ is his to claim. He’s gotten fucked before, but Joe’s cock is thick and it feels like he’s being split open on it as Joe works his way in, inch by inch, slow enough that nothing burns. He can’t believe that Joe’s cock is even fitting inside him, as if Joe’s just making room for himself inside Max.

It takes a little for Joe to settle into a rhythm - Max isn’t helping, either, he’s still trying to catch his breath, too oversensitive to fully relax into it. It’s just on the other side of too good, every nerve lighting up as Joe fucks into him, until Joe finds the right angle and Max is— getting hard again. He doesn’t even realize it until Joe points it out, too caught up in the feeling.

“You can touch yourself if you want,” Joe says, like he doesn’t particularly care if Max does; like he doesn’t care if Max comes again or not. It shouldn’t be hot, the way Joe just says that, as if Max’s pleasure is just incidental to the situation. He doesn’t let up on fucking him as he’s saying it, either, strong thrusts - _catcher’s thighs_ , Max thinks again, although Joe hasn’t caught in years.

He comes again faster than he thought he would considering that he’s already orgasmed once. Joe fucks him through it, doesn’t let up at all even though Max is definitely clenching down on his cock as he comes. Fucks Max through the aftershocks, too, and then keeps fucking him as Max falls back in a boneless mess onto the bed.

There’s absolutely no way he’s getting hard again, not after coming twice, but the way Joe keeps driving into him, like he’s just a hole to fuck, sends a shiver up his spine; makes something settle in his belly. He doesn’t know if it’s a good feeling or not, but the hunger in Joe’s eyes is enough to keep him there, lying down and just— taking it.

Joe’s thrusts keep get sharper as he gets closer to coming and Max is trying to hold back whimpers every time Joe’s hips meet his ass. He’s so overwhelmed; sensitive and raw inside, that he barely notices when Joe pulls out until he’s already gone, fast enough that Max feels like he must be gaping open from the loss of his cock.

Joe takes off the condom, tossing it aside somewhere before wrapping a hand around his cock to jerk himself off; Max, propped up on his elbows again, can only watch. He’s almost relieved that Joe isn’t coming while inside him, because going off of how Joe’s stripping his cock, hard and fast, it would’ve been rough and he doesn’t think he could take any more of those short sharp thrusts. When Joe comes, it’s all over Max’s ass and thighs, some of it getting onto his dick where his legs are still spread and more dripping down his balls. Max has never felt more exposed.

He’s still only just lying there but he still feels out of breath, breathing along with Joe as he catches his own. Joe moves first, getting Max’s legs off his shoulders - gentle, almost, which feels weird after the way he’d fucked him - and then goes to pick up the condom from where he’d discarded it.

“Towels are in the cabinet,” Joe says as he knots it off before tossing it in the trash, and Max can take a hint. He isn’t sure how his legs manage to work, but he goes to the ensuite that Joe waves him toward, with slow stuttering steps - _fuck_ , he’s going to be sore tomorrow - but Joe doesn’t mention the hitch in his walk. Isn’t even looking at him, actually, when Max looks back at him; he’s checking something on his phone now and Max— just shuts the bathroom door behind him as fast as he can.

He takes the world’s most perfunctory shower, washing his hair mechanically with whatever shampoo Joe’s got stashed in the shower, some herbal scent that makes his nose itch, before reaching for the body wash. There’s come everywhere, and most of it’s already been washed away by the shower spray but the crack of his ass is a mess of lube and come. He tries cleaning himself off as best as he can but the skin on the inside of his thighs is so _sensitive_ \- when he looks down it’s all red from beard burn; even just brushing his fingers against the skin there makes him gasp.

He wraps a towel around his waist and comes out, hair dripping everywhere. Joe’s sitting on the bed now, just to the side of where he’d been fucking Max on it, pants and underwear back up around his hips but the fly undone. He looks relaxed, like he’s ready to unwind for the night. Max can’t say that he feels anywhere near the same way.

“I called you a cab,” Joe says, as Max hunts for his underwear. “It’ll be here in five minutes.”

Max bites his lip as he drops the towel - no point in being shy when Joe’s tongue was in his ass earlier - and pulls his underwear on. “Okay,” he says, as he reaches for his jeans next. He doesn’t know what he expected. Doesn’t even know if he would have wanted to stay the night, if Joe asked him to, but he definitely didn’t expect to just get sent home like this. It makes sense, though; Max is just a rookie, their season’s over, and this was just sex. Something in his chest snaps, a growing pit forming just behind his ribs.

He finishes getting dressed in silence - Joe gives him a brief wave when he leaves the room - and then sees himself out of Joe’s house without seeing any more of the place. The car’s not there yet, but he doesn’t want to wait inside until it arrives.

His shoes are barely on; he’d just jammed his feet into them before heading out Joe’s front door, but he doesn’t bother tying them until he’s sitting in the back of the car. The driver doesn’t try to make small talk, and Max just stares out the window at city scenery that he doesn’t know well at all. Maybe someday it’ll become familiar, but that’s not happening this year. He tries his best to think about absolutely nothing - if he thinks too much he’ll think about how he feels wrung-out and used; both between his legs and the hollowness inside his chest. When Joe asked him to come back with him he thought they’d be celebrating something. First start, first hit. Max came twice; once on Joe’s fingers and another time when Joe fucked him and it had felt good and he’d _liked_ all of it and he doesn’t know why he feels so brittle, like his ribs could shatter at any moment now.

He gets dropped off at the hotel he’s been staying at while he’s been up with the big league team, close enough to Target Field that he can walk there. The car leaves as soon as he closes the door behind him, driving off into the night.

It’s late enough that there’s nobody in the lobby when he enters, and the night staff are evidently paid enough to not give a fuck about a guy coming back this late in the evening. He tries not to look at his reflection in the mirrored walls of the elevator, but when he does accidentally catch a glimpse of himself there’s nothing out of sorts. His hair’s a little messy, maybe, but he just looks— tired. Max thought it’d show on his face more, somehow.

His room’s too dark when he unlocks it; even turning on the lights doesn’t seem to help chase that away. He barely manages kicks his shoes off before flopping back onto the bed, suddenly exhausted. There’s something in his pocket, digging into his hip - it’s the baseball in his jacket, from earlier today; his first ever MLB hit. He’d almost forgotten, in everything that’s happened since Molitor had handed him the ball.

Max turns the baseball over and over in his hands, almost an afterthought. He’ll have to pack his shit up soon and locker cleanout’s the next day, but he doesn’t have much to pack and much to clean out; that can all wait. He thinks about the beard burn on his legs, the slickness between his thighs; the stitching of the baseball under his fingers, and doesn’t let himself think about anything else.

 

 

 

It actually starts like this:

He’s sixteen, less than a week after he’s moved to Florida with his mom. He thought he was ready to move to the States but— Florida isn’t Texas and neither of them are _Berlin_ and he’s oddly homesick. Doesn’t regret the move, but still homesick. There’s nothing to do in Fort Myers except go to school and play baseball, so he throws himself into both.

Joe shows up, one of those stupidly hot summer days, in the afternoon while he’s at practice in the GCL Twins’ fields. Max hasn’t finished growing yet, but Joe is six-foot-five and his presence makes him seem even bigger: Joe Mauer, coming off an MVP season and another All-Star year, and he’s here talking to _Max_ ; can’t blame him for getting a little starry-eyed.

“Hey,” Joe says, “I’m Joe,” like Max hasn’t known who he is for years, and holds out a hand. Max didn’t realize just how much larger Joe’s hands were than his until Joe’s is practically dwarfing his own as they shake. “I’ve heard good things about you,” he says - Max tries not read too much into that, he really doesn’t - and then grins, a little conspiratorial, like it’s a secret from the rest of the org. “I look forward to seeing you with us in Minnesota soon.”

**Author's Note:**

>  **warnings** : there's a significant age (10 years) and experience gap between the two characters in this fic. they both consent to the encounter and reaffirm consent throughout but one of them has complicated feelings afterwards.
> 
> the working title for this was 'joe mauer is going to hell'. i am so so so sorry to joseph patrick mauer for posting this on today, the day that they announced they're retiring your number
> 
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